


Malta Over the Years

by static_abyss



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Developing Relationship, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Minor Andy | Andromache of Scythia/Quynh | Noriko, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-29
Updated: 2020-12-29
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:36:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28409361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/static_abyss/pseuds/static_abyss
Summary: "Remember that time in Malta?" Nicky asks.Joe looks away and knows they're both thinking of white sand and clear seas, of ice-cold drinks and laughter. But they're also thinking of that first time in Malta. The one when Nicky almost walked away, when Joe found out they were on different paths, the time in Malta when Nicky stayed. When they chose each other. Where Joe would choose Nicky again and again. Where Nicky finally gave time a shot.That time in Malta, but also all those other times in Malta."That would be nice," Joe says.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 16
Kudos: 115
Collections: The Old Guard Mini Bang 2020, The Old Guard ▶ Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani / Nicky | Nicolo di Genova





	Malta Over the Years

**Author's Note:**

> It has been an absolute pleasure working with [C](https://notablogtobefollowedunless.tumblr.com/). Their art is absolutely gorgeous and I 1000% recommend going to reblog [their tumblr post](https://notablogtobefollowedunless.tumblr.com/post/638862345950674944/the-old-guard-mini-bang-2020-theoldguardevents) and also all of their art. 
> 
> A huge thanks to [Gine](https://missgine.tumblr.com/) for helping me beta this fic and for being patient when real life got in the way. I apologize for my inability to control myself when it comes to commas, and I promise that any remaining mistakes are entirely my own.

_England, 2020 CE_

"Remember that time in Malta?" Nicky asks, the worry evident in his tone.

Joe turns to look at him the best he can, tries to let him know that he's okay, that everything will be fine. They've been in worse situations before and as long as both of them are still together, it'll be okay.

"What time in Malta?" Joe asks, wincing as he stretches and pulls on a healing wound.

Nicky says nothing but when Joe looks at him, the mischief in his eyes is all the answer Joe needs. "Oh," he says, grinning. "That time in Malta."

"We should go back," Nicky says quietly.

Joe looks away and knows they're both thinking of white sand and clear seas, of ice-cold drinks and laughter. But they're also thinking of that first time in Malta. The one when Nicky almost walked away, when Joe found out they were on different paths, the time in Malta when Nicky stayed. When they chose each other. Where Joe would choose Nicky again and again. Where Nicky finally gave time a shot.

That time in Malta, but also all those other times in Malta.

"That would be nice," Joe says.

_Malta, 1082 CE_

The afternoon breeze brings with it the harsh sulphury smell of the sea as it flows over Yusuf. He's reminded of the ports at home, the way the wind brought the smell of spices and herbs, how the mixture always gave the salty sea air a distinct aroma. As he stands at the edge of the cliffs overlooking the bright blue ocean, he can see the waves breaking on the rocks below and he thinks he could find a home on this island. Overhead, the sun beams down, the last of its blistering heat clashing with the water and bringing heavy humid air. The weather has been consistent since Yusuf and his family made it onto the island a year ago and that's one of the biggest differences between this place and the Mahgreb. Back home, he can find the arid heat of the desert if he looks for it, that warmth that welcomes and envelopes. Nothing so harsh as the suffocating warmth of the mainland air. He finds that he misses the heat of the desert the most because though punishing as it may seem, it's easy to slip under the shade and find comfort.

The humidity of the island and the coasts back home is a different sort. It clings to Yusuf wherever he goes, so that the sweat pools in his temples. Even with the light material of his clothing, it's hard to ignore the way the island air disturbs the peace of the afternoon. They haven't had many quiet days recently and fewer still that didn't bring with them cloying heat. But as Yusuf looks out at the sea, the cloudless evening skies bode well. He hopes tomorrow will be kinder so that his mother will agree to go out to the water with Yusuf and his father.

There have been few opportunities this past year to see the sea from one of the small rowboats they keep on the larger ships. He wants to see what color the water is from close-up, itches to sketch the fading horizon, the way the sea becomes the sky and the setting sun breaks the blues into a myriad of colors. Yusuf never tires of watching the sunset, of the cooling breeze that washes over the sands and the way everything goes quiet at the end of the day. Atop of the cliffs, he can see far into the distance and it's only because he's used to the silence and stillness of the island's evening that he notices the waves of white in the distance.

The ships sit at the horizon a moment, stagnant and foreboding. Yusuf watches them and feels frozen in time. The minutes drag on as he tries to make sense of what the ships mean. Whatever merchant ships are staying on the island have long since docked and headed inland so he knows they're not here to trade. The rocks at the bottom of the cliff where Yusuf stands make sailing at night dangerous. So he can only assume that whoever steers the ships in the distance either has confidence in their sailing skills or is running a fool's errand. One of those options makes them dangerous but, though there's been little fighting this past year, the islanders are used to battle on their soil. The island itself has changed rulers many times over the years and it wouldn't come as a surprise that someone else is here to claim it.

Yusuf can't be sure that the ships on the horizon are friendly ships and as he stares out at the sea, he thinks he can catch the faint whiff of burning gunpowder as the wind turns towards the shore. That spurs him into action because nothing good ever comes from ships with gunpowder so late in the afternoon. He turns back down the cliffs intending to find his father and tell him what he's seen. But as Yusuf goes further inland, he notices other people running, some of them gathering children as they go. The frantic rush of bodies only gets worse as he gets into town because the people have started to barricade their doors. Further up ahead, he can see a gathering of men. They're a mixed group though all of them carry the same wary expression and though the weapons in their hands may be shaped differently, they're all for the same purpose.

As Yusuf walks towards them, he can hear a cacophony of whispers rising like cresting waves. He hears, "crucesignati" murmured among the people and hears the anger and fear underneath. He's too young still to carry the same anger that the men around him carry but he understands the inevitability on their faces. There is fighting coming, the kind that leaves destruction and orphans in its wake. And so, Yusuf does the only thing a boy can do and longs for the dry desert of home.

_The Battle of Jerusalem, 1099 CE_

There is an inevitability in death that Yusuf has come to accept over the course of the past ten years. His scimitar has long since become an extension of himself, the only thing that keeps him alive and well with the hope of returning home one day. He fights on ships by daylight, water and salt mixing with the coppery taste of blood. At night, he reads by candlelight, always knowing how many men have died by his hand, remembering the sight of their eyes, the hatred, the fear, the resignation. He was not made for killing and each time he wakes to a new battle, Yusuf grows ever tired.

He longs for the nights in his home, when the smells of his mother's cooking accompanied his father's laughter, to read by the fading daylight, to draw the bright expanse of the port. He longs even for the island that was his last home before the fighting began, for the moment before he saw the Catholic ships and everything changed. He wishes to open his eyes and be warmed by the sounds of water against the wooden hull of the ship he's in. He wanted to go to sea when he was younger, to follow the merchant ships that went up North past the Maghreb and to find out where else they sold their spices and cloth.

Now, all Yusuf wants is to feel dry land under his feet and never again turn to the ocean. He's so tired of red water and the sounds of dying men. But even before the sun rises, he can hear the clang of metal against metal and he knows there's no time to rest yet.

The sun hasn't risen by the time the men on the ship are decked in their armor, their weapons in hand, exhaustion obvious in the shadows under their eyes. Some of them have never killed before but these are the things they must do to protect their homes. So Yusuf secures his scimitar and waits for the ship to dock. They're meant to fight their way to Jerusalem but as they get closer to shore, they come face-to-face with burning ships and the roaring of hundreds of men in the sand. Even before Yusuf steps onto the once-white beaches, he can already feel the heaviness of bodies upon bodies, of clashing armor and the clang of metal against metal. He doesn't stop to think of home as the men steer the ship straight onto the sand. The impact throws Yusuf off-balance, men bumping into each other as they try to keep their feet.

He hears, "crucesignati," sees the crosses on the flags and on the men below. He thinks of fear and anger and Yusuf can feel the bone-weary tiredness that's accompanied him all these years. He was never meant to do this. Once, he was destined for poetry and art, to consume all the knowledge at his fingertips until it made him whole. But he has men under his command and the young boy of sixteen who used to stare at the sea from the cliff's edge is long gone.

-

His name is Nicolo and they both speak Latin, and there's something like anger in Yusuf's chest because he's alive and so is Nicolo and the world has ceased to make sense.

"Who are you?" Yusuf asks again.

He's been asking for days under the blazing heat of the sun. For days, they've been covered in sand and blood and the smell of decaying bodies. The sky stretches out and meets the sea in the distance, the waves rise and fall, the days turn to nights, and still, Yusuf doesn't understand.

He can see Nicolo hunched over himself a little ways off, his armor laid out at his feet, his sweaty brown hair falling over his forehead and into his eyes. He has blue eyes the color of the Mediterranean sea, a blue that tries at being green. His nose is much like any other nose, not anything Yusuf hasn't seen before. Nothing new or exciting. There's nothing in Nicolo that draws Yusuf's eye. He's said very little over the last few days so Yusuf has no measure of his personality. But he understands the exhaustion in Nicolo's shoulders, in the way he's stuck his sword, point down, into the sand.

They're not friends but Yusuf carries the memories of Nicolo's sword in his stomach and he knows what Nicolo's eyes look like when he's dying. And though no God has come down to explain what this is, Yusuf knows a miracle when he's living in one.

"Nicolo," he says, trying out the name, knowing deep in his bones that this man and he are tied, despite themselves.

Nicolo doesn't move and that too, Yusuf can understand. He wishes to lay on the hot sand and let the days pass until everything within him makes sense again. He wants to go home and feel the dry heat of the desert on his face, to a place that, perhaps, no longer exists. The last thought brings with it a flare of pain and a sadness so deep, Yusuf can't ever hope to find a way out. There's too much hurt in his soul for patience and he knows better than to give in to the desire to rest. If he sits now, he will never get up again.

"We're leaving," he says.

It takes everything in Yusuf to pick up his scimitar again, to wipe off Nicolo's blood in the sand. He sheathes it and looks down at his own armor. He can't decide what he wants to do. Behind him, Nicolo's finally moving, and though part of Yusuf prepares for the sting of metal against his flesh, he doesn't turn. He leaves the armor and heads straight for the water, for the shipwrecks and the smaller boats. Above him, the sun shines down unforgiving and cruel, the sky the brightest blue it's been since Yusuf stepped back onto the shore. He can see where the water meets the horizon, can smell the seawater, and he thinks of himself at sixteen, watching the ships inching forever closer.

He keeps going, barely registering Nicolo's heavy tread behind him.

"You'll burn in all that armor," he says.

"Where are we going?" Nicolo asks.

"To find a way off this island," Yusuf says.

He can feel Nicolo's eyes on him and knows, too, that this is the most they've said to each other in days. Yusuf waits for Nicolo to continue, already knows that if Nicolo asks him why they're leaving, Yusuf will never forgive him.

 _There's too much death,_ he wants to say and the ache of being onshore when all of his men are dead is too much. He doesn't voice it aloud though because even if he and Nicolo are tied together by circumstance, Yusuf isn't ready to share more yet. Instead, he turns back to the shipwrecks in the distance, his eyes zeroing in on the smaller boats. They won't make it far but Yusuf hopes to make it just far enough to leave behind the bloody seawater. And if they don't make that far, well, it's not like either of them can die anyway.

_Malta, 1130 CE_

Malta is unlike Rome in that it's changed hands over the years so many times, it's left behind a mix of different people. There's nothing odd about Nicolo and Yusuf walking through town, Yusuf smiling and vibrant, the sun lighting his brown hair into a kaleidoscope of color. He's a myriad of browns, in the curls of his hair and his fond eyes. Nicolo knows better than to think he's the reason for Yusuf's happiness though.

He hasn't been back to Malta since before it was renamed, back when the Fatimids had control of the island. Nicolo's just there for the ride, wanting to leave but not knowing how. He can't wrap his head around what's happened, still doesn't know what he's meant to do now that he has forever. He hasn't been able to reconcile the fighting and the death with his inability to die or what it means that Yusuf can't die either. Because Nicolo's sure that there's some meaning to everything, an answer for why it's him and Yusuf together, both from different sides, fighting different battles in the same war.

"There's something bigger than us happening here," Yusuf said once, at the very beginning of their travels together.

There's something happening in Nicolo that leaves him shaking with barely suppressed anger. He doesn't like thinking that he was wrong, that all this time he spent fighting for the Church was for nothing. But he's traveled so far with Yusuf, to so many lands. They've shared the same dreams, two other women traveling together. Always the same women in many different places and because they have nothing better to do, they've been following the women. Trying to follow where they've been or where they're going.

Nicolo doesn't know who they are but in his weaker moments, he's thought that perhaps they're past lives of Nicolo and Yusuf, that there's some message to find in the lives they dream. That they've seen the women kissing and huddling together at night complicates things, makes it so that Nicolo can't focus on anything but Yusuf. He watches him, his eyes drifting of their own accord to follow the movement of Yusuf's muscles. Every inch of skin like a beacon calling Nicolo.

He hates dwelling on what it might mean that he feels the faint stirrings of attraction whenever Yusuf gets too close. He hates to think that there's nothing left of his old life, that every day he wakes shows him that the good he thought he was doing wasn't anywhere near good at all. He hates to think that all he has left are the promises made in front of an altar in a church that will crumble to dust long before Nicolo. That he can even think _that_ is blasphemous, though Nicolo's tired of those thoughts as well. It angers him that he was wrong, that the church was wrong, that every moment he lives and breathes with Yusuf by his side is just further proof of all the things Nicolo's lost.

Because Nicolo wakes each day not knowing what his place in the world is and Yusuf wakes and lives and breathes and exists like it's the most natural thing in the world. There Yusuf is by Nicolo's side, turning so that the sun catches his face and all the different shades of brown in his hair burst to life. There too is the pang in Nicolo's chest when Yusuf forgets himself and smiles so wide at Nicolo, he knows it must hurt. There Yusuf is next to him unaware of the things that war inside Nicolo. Beautiful Yusuf who walks his new life as though he was made for it, as though he doesn't feel the burden of a world that's leaving their teachings behind. Because who is Nicolo without everything that made him who he was before? Who is Nicolo if the only consistent thing in his life is Yusuf Al-Kaysani?

He doesn't know why it angers him so much and makes him want to run. Yusuf's done nothing but be kind to Nicolo, to fight with him, live with him, exist with him. But Nicolo was born with fire in his veins and a rage that keeps him steady. The problem is that there's no rational thought when he's angry, no room for him to think. The anger buries him, turns him into someone who can't feel, who exists only to alleviate the drowning in his bones. To crush with his bare hands that which has caused him pain. He'd drown a man under all of his anger.

So he tries not to get angry and for the most part, he succeeds.

_Malta, 1250 CE_

Yusuf doesn't think too hard about the past these days. The battle at Jerusalem was so long ago, he can't even remember who it was that died first, him or Nicolo. He's been back home, has felt the desert heat along his face, smelled the spices at the port, and seen for himself what was left of his home. He knew there would be nothing left of his childhood. Perhaps he even hoped there would be nothing because to see glimpses of his old home would have been too painful.

The world he exists in now and the one his family had are not the same. Even Nicolo, quiet and withdrawn, never sought out his family. They've traveled together, healed side by side. Who they were matters less than who they are now, and though Yusuf can still smell blood and seawater sometimes, he no longer feels the rage that used to accompany the memories.

He knows it's different for Nicolo, has learned to recognize the way anger sits on Nicolo's face. That silence and calm that washes over Nicolo now has preceded many of his outbursts. Though these days, it's Yusuf Nicolo is protecting and the anger isn't directed at him, but in his favor.

At that moment, Nicolo's anger is at what Andromache's told them.

"What do you mean there were others?" Nicolo asks. "What happened to them?"

They've finally found the women from their dreams, Andromache of Scythia and Quynh. They've been together for over a thousand years and the idea of a millennium rests heavy on Yusuf's heart. He can see that they're together in the way they sit, how Quynh leans towards Andromache, and how they finish each other's thoughts. There's a casual intimacy to their movements that could almost mirror his and Nicolo's movements. But Yusuf knows better than to let himself confuse what he shares with Nicolo as anything more than friendship forced by their circumstances.

The only reason Nicolo sits so close to Yusuf as they stare at Andromache and Quynh is because Yusuf is the evil that Nicolo knows. They've been together for long enough that they move as one, fight as one, exist as one. But only because they've always thought they were all either of them had left. To know there's more of them brings both relief and pain to Yusuf. He doesn't fully yet know what it means that of all the immortals born so far, he and Nicolo were the only two born together. He doesn't know what it means that they can still die.

"Him," Andromache says, exchanging a look with Quynh. "His name was Lykon."

"And are there others?" Nicolo asks.

Yusuf meets Quynh's eyes and sees understanding there. He doesn't know what must be on his face that she can read him so easily. Because it's not like Yusuf loves Nicolo, though perhaps that is exactly what it is. Because they're it for each other, no matter which way anyone looks at it. They died together and were reborn together over and over. And for as long as they live, no one will ever understand them the way they understand each other. The same way there is no one in the world who will ever understand Andromache the way Quynh understands her. Maybe that is love.

Maybe there's something beautiful waiting to be born from all their loss. Maybe the side glances from Nicolo and the way he can't seem to stop staring at Yusuf in the sunlight means that Nicolo feels it too. Some sort of inevitability in their circumstances.

There are more of them and still, only Nicolo and Yusuf were born together. Only they have never spent a moment of their new lives alone.

"Why did we dream of you?" Nicolo asks.

Andromache shrugs. "It's how we find each other," she says. "The dreams tell us where to go and who to look for."

"So there will be others?" Nicolo asks. "There might be more people out there?"

Andromache's eyes shift to Yusuf to Nicolo and back to Yusuf. "Aren't you two…" she starts.

"No," Nicolo says too quickly.

Yusuf smiles despite himself. "You don't have to sound so eager to deny us, Nicolo," he says.

Nicolo looks at the ground and Yusuf nudges his shoulders. When Nicolo glances at him, Yusuf winks. That's all it takes, some days less than that, for Nicolo to pull himself together. They know each other too well for there to be nothing between them. But Yusuf is patient where the heart is concerned. He will not push if Nicolo isn't ready.

"How long have you two been together?" Quynh asks.

She's staring at where Nicolo and Yusuf's shoulders are touching, at the faint smile on Nicolo's face as Yusuf grins down at him.

"Over a hundred years," Yusuf says.

"One hundred and fifty-one," Nicolo says at the same time.

"Hm," Andromache says, raising an eyebrow at Quynh.

Quynh grins at her, the smile lighting up her face. When she turns to Yusuf and Nicolo, there's something like amusement in her expression.

"You know," she says, glancing down at where Yusuf's twined his and Nicolo's fingers together. "You don't have to be so eager to deny yourselves what you want."

-

If Nicolo thought about it, he would understand the comfort in the inevitability of him and Yusuf. It's much like the consistency of his beliefs, those he's built independently of the Church and what he was taught. But somehow it's worse being with Yusuf now that Andromache and Quynh are with them. It makes Nicolo's skin itch, makes him restless to be surrounded on all sides with Andromache and Quynh's love. That they're so different and can find comfort in each other makes Nicolo long for things he can't have.

It isn't a matter as simple as saying yes to the look in Yusuf's eyes. It's more than just letting himself lean into Yusuf's side and not pulling away when Yusuf twines their fingers together. They were getting there but now that Quyn and Andromache are here, it's as though Nicolo's being forced to move faster and part of him resents that. He's done taking orders from others, done doing what's expected of him. Nothing in the world makes sense, not even the one he lives in now.

There are more of them. It's not just Nicolo and Yusuf and whatever meaning there was behind their new lives. There's Andromache now, older than Nicolo can conceive. There's Quynh and Lykon and the potential for more of them. It's not about being connected to Yusuf alone, but somehow it still is. Because only he and Yusuf were reborn together. Because only he and Yusuf have never been alone in their new lives.

He thinks of Andromache, of three thousand years wandering the Earth. She lived before Rome was even a thought in the world. To her, he and Yusuf are nothing but a blink of an eye. He tries to imagine what the world would have been like back then and can't. He isn't like Yusuf. He doesn't want to know everything he can, doesn't sit with Andromache by the fire until he can coax the stories out of her. He'd never be able to do what Yusuf does, how easily he puts people at ease, how quickly he makes Quynh and Andromache laugh. Nicolo can't just throw everything away and start over. He wouldn't even know how to begin.

"Are you all right?" Yusuf asks.

They're sitting on the Malta beach, the sun shining and the waves lapping at the white sand. To their left, the port rings with the sound of sailors calling out to each other as they unload their ships. There are children running through the crowds, some of them climbing empty barrels as they go, some of them tossing stones at the docked ships. Everything is noisier now, more alive than Nicolo remembers, almost as though the world is waking.

"Is this everything?" Nicolo asks.

He means the peace of the moment, the way the four of them sit on the Malta beach and exist along with the rest of the world. Not in the world but adjacent. How Andromache and Quynh seem to think that they're all meant to keep fighting, to keep killing, to constantly fight battles for a greater good that no one can see.

It's not much different than Catholicism in that way.

"Are you looking for more?" Yusuf asks.

Nicolo stares out at the water, at the endless waves of blue that disappear into the sky. He thinks of bloody beaches and the clang of metal against metal. He thinks of broken homes and burning towns, of men hacked to pieces and the searing pain of a blade through his heart. He reaches for Yusuf's hand without thinking and isn't surprised at how they rearrange their hold to fit. Sometimes when he sits with Yusuf, all the doubt stops. Not because it goes away but because it seems less important to dwell on the bad when he can enjoy the way Yusuf includes him in his jokes, or the way Yusuf moves and breathes and lives.

Nicolo's so tired of fighting with himself, of existing unmoored in the world. He wants someone to make sense of the world for him, to make the anger that sits in his chest go away. He can't even remember what makes him angrier, the fact that there's no logic to his eternal life or the fact that Yusuf's taken to it so easily. Because how is Nicolo supposed to ever be worthy of the love that shines from Yusuf's eyes?

"Don't you ever wonder what else there is out there?" Nicolo asks, finally.

He can feel Yusuf's eyes on the side of his face and when Nicolo turns to him, it's to catch the very end of the flash of hurt on Yusuf's face. He regrets it immediately, though he can't bring himself to be sorry. There has to be more. He can't be all there is for Yusuf.

"I don't want anything else," Yusuf says.

"You'll tire of me," Nicolo says, automatically, the conversation already played and replayed in his head countless times.

"We've been together for over a hundred and fifty-one years," Yusuf says.

"I know," Nicolo says, letting Yusuf take his hand. "That's the problem."

He thinks of Andromache and all the people she's been with over the course of her life, how she chose Quynh despite that. He thinks of never having been with another person before, of how before, this would be the ideal, Nicolo saving himself for his husband. But things change and the world shifts and perhaps what was enough before isn't enough now. He thinks of a thousand years and can't conceive of Yusuf staying with him that long, of their forever being literal.

"There is something of the divine in this," Yusuf says, staring down at their joined hands. "It could have been anyone but it just happened to be you. That means something, Nicolo. Even if you don't want to see it."

Then Yusuf stands and Nicolo's left sitting on the beach, watching as the setting sun catches on Yusuf's hair.

_Malta, early 1700s_

Yusuf's hands are warm on Nicolo's face, that soft slide of fingers into his hair as Yusuf kisses him. He feels wanted and whole, every part of him coming alive as they tumble to the bed, Nicolo's knees catching on the edge. There's a small shuffle as they rearrange, quiet laughter from Yusuf as he kisses Nicolo's neck and pushes him up to the middle of the bed. They pull away from each other.

"We're back," Yusuf says.

Nicolo closes his eyes against the memories and also against the sight of Yusuf, hair mussed from Nicolo's fingers, his mouth wet and his lips swollen. They haven't stopped kissing since they closed the door behind them in their little house.

"We're back," Nicky nods, remembering the day they bought their little house in Malta.

 _You can have it,_ Yusuf said.

It was in their early days, when they hadn't learned how to fit together yet, when Yusuf's hands were only just learning how to touch Nicolo. Back when Nicolo hadn't known that the greatest thing in the world was the feel of Yusuf's mouth on him. They'd only been traveling with Andromache and Quynh for a few years and Nicolo still wasn't sure whether he believed in the inevitable.

He's changed since then, has come to understand that absolution exists in the way Yusuf looks at him, that unwavering devotion that makes Nicolo feel whole and alive. When he's with Yusuf, the world shifts so that it makes sense. To allow people to feel what he feels for Yusuf, to give them a chance at having what they have, is worth all their wariness. Nicolo understands fighting for a better world because it's the right thing to do, because Yusuf believed until Nicolo could, because sometimes, the only answer is that to do nothing would be worse.

"I love you," Yusuf says.

His smile is wide, face lighting up as though he can't contain all his joy within him. He's vibrant, expressive, everything that Nicolo wishes he was and isn't. He can't laugh the way Yusuf laughs, not that open, not that free. But he can try in his own way to be what Yusuf needs, to show him through actions that what exists between them isn't one-sided.

Nicolo kisses him, presses into Yusuf's mouth everything he feels. Words seem inadequate in moments like those, when the humid air flows through their stone home from their windows and Yusuf's hand moves in that practiced way that never fails to drive Nicolo half-mad with pleasure.

It's a little rough, a little desperate as they both seek to find comfort in their release. Yusuf presses forward and Nicolo pulls him closer and it's all a little more than they can take. They need to know they're both there, secure behind the yellow stone of their home. A little more desperate than when they die and come back. Because this isn't about one of them dying and the other not being able to follow.

This is about Andromache and Quynh, about circumstances and the way the world can conspire to hurt them. That there might come a time when Nicolo and Yusuf might not be able to stay together because of a world that's grown too bold was not something they'd considered before. But Quynh is drowning at the bottom of the sea and Andromache couldn't stay with them.

 _We don't understand,_ Yusuf said, when they stood at the helm of Andromache's ship, eyes out for anything that might look like an iron coffin. _We've always been able to find our way back to each other._

Even when it hadn't seemed like it, they found their way back to each other. Even when it was Nicolo standing at the edge of the Maltese shore, watching the ships disappear on the horizon, wondering whether he could catch the next one and just go. When it was him asking if there was more to the world than Yusuf's laughter.

 _Is this all there is,_ Nicolo asked once and it still hurts him to think that he might have walked away and missed the way Yusuf feels under his hands. That he might lose him now sits like a weight across Nicolo's shoulders, makes it so that he tries harder to perfect his aim, so that he's an extension of Yusuf, so that it's second nature to step in front of anything that might hurt Yusuf.

 _You're impossible,_ is Yusuf's favorite saying, always with a fond shake of his head, always a little desperate when Nicolo comes back to life. But he understands the sentiment because he's seen Yusuf go and come back and it's always the moments in between that are the hardest. It's much easier when they go together, when they wake and Yusuf's there to meet Nicolo's eyes. That way there isn't enough time to worry or think the worst.

He doesn't know what he'd do if he woke and Yusuf didn't. Or worse, if Yusuf was alive and Nicolo couldn't get to him.

"What are you thinking about?" Yusuf asks after, when they're lying down together, the sounds of the town carrying over to them.

"I want to go to the beach," Nicolo says. "To look at the sea."

He doesn't say that the heat in the room is suffocating, that old doubts weigh heavy on his mind. This isn't about Yusuf. It's about Nicolo and how empty the world feels sometimes, how hard he has to try sometimes to keep believing that what they do is good and important. That it matters.

"Let's go to the beach," Yusuf says, standing in one easy movement.

Nicolo watches him, marvels for the hundredth time at the fact that Yusuf wants him, that Yusuf is his. He never thought he'd be this lucky. Not even when he woke and woke and woke and Yusuf was there at his side.

They make it to the edge of the Eastern Maltese shores, the water lapping against the white sands, the sky extending forever in the distance. Yusuf throws his hands wide and lets the breeze wash over him, a contented smile on his face. He shines in the light, alive in shades of brown, the laughter evident in his posture. He's dripping with contentment, all of him always so full of all the good things in the world. His joy is infectious and it's no surprise that Yusuf's always been able to make them all laugh without even trying.

Nicolo watches him now as he stands at the far end of the beach, the warm air blowing over his face and hair. All around him is white sand and the endless expanse of blue sky as it meets with the ocean. At his back, there's the sun and the faint roaring of the city, an easy thing to ignore in the presence of the beauty of this place. A man could die at peace here, Nicky thinks. Just him and the contentment in his heart as he watches Yusuf. Always a little sad that it took him so long to get here but forever grateful that he did. That he has Yusuf, unconditionally. That they have each other.

God, Nicolo loves him with everything he is.

Yusuf turns and finds Nicolo watching him, that small barely-there smile that speaks to deep happiness. He only ever smiles at Yusuf like that. For everyone else, Nicolo’s reserved, a little withdrawn, easily overlooked and underestimated. He prefers it that way, Yusuf knows, because it makes it easier to catch people off guard.

"What is it?" Yusuf asks.

Nicolo shakes his head. "You're beautiful in the sunlight," he says, helplessly.

Yusuf laughs, a pleased smile settling on his face. "I like you in Malta, Nicolo," he says. "It suits you."

But Nicolo knows they're both thinking of the last time they were here, when Nicolo stood on the shore and considered running. To tell Yusuf that he regrets it wouldn't be enough. Words seem inadequate given all the things they've gone through over the centuries. But Nicolo wants Yusuf to know that he's not going anywhere, that even if he had to fight his way through the rest of the world, he'd always come back to Yusuf.

This, too, might be because of Andromache and Quynh, because even though they're all immortal, it doesn't mean they have forever.

"Marry me," Nicolo says.

He's caught Yusuf off guard for the first time in a long time. He's standing there, beautiful eyes wide with surprise as he looks at Nicolo and it's all Nicolo can do to keep from kissing him.

"Yes," Yusuf says. "No. Wait."

"Wait?" Nicolo asks, nervous despite knowing what the answer is going to be.

Yusuf inhales, his gaze drifting to the side, to the city behind them and their house in the distance. Nicolo can picture the little two-room home, with its light yellow coat of paint, small enough for the two of them. No more but certainly no less than they need.

"You asked me once," Yusuf starts, and even before he finishes Nicolo knows what he's going to say. "You asked me if this was everything there was."

Nicolo turns, looks to their home, to the other small stone homes, and the towering mosques, the way civilization climbs jagged along the island. The world is ever-expanding, making room for the people they are and will become. It's big enough to hold Andromache and all of her love and loss. Large enough for Nicolo and Yusuf, for their ups and downs, for the life they're trying to build. Wide enough for four impossible immortal lives.

Who cares if there's more than just that? More than just them living and trying to live despite the odds. More than doing the best they can. Sometimes, not knowing but forging forward anyway is enough. Sometimes, there's no more than that and it's still enough anyway.

"Yes," Nicolo says, reaching out to take Yusuf's hand in his, both of them looking at their house in the distance. "This is everything. This is enough."


End file.
